


Where There's Smoke

by keerawa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Amnesia, Community: sammessiah, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-29
Updated: 2010-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn’t know what he was waking up to.  He just knew it was bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There's Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fayolin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fayolin).



> Thanks to my beta, [](http://whitereflection.livejournal.com/profile)[**whitereflection**](http://whitereflection.livejournal.com/)  
> 

The frantic whine of cicadas woke him. Dean clung to sleep, to blackness. He didn’t know what he was waking up to. He just knew it was bad.

Splintery wood under his cheek. The floor was warmer than the air and Dean curled up a little tighter. He licked his dry lips, tasted coppery blood. Somewhere, something was burning.

Dean’s eyes opened and he rolled to his feet, categorizing and ignoring his body’s aches and pains. He staggered a little, recognizing the dizziness of a mild concussion. Explained why he had no idea where the fuck he was.

Dean was standing in a little white gazebo on a town commons. The flowers woven through the lattice of the gazebo were wilted and dead, as was the brown grass. The sky overhead was dark, almost green. On the horizon a wall cloud the color of black smoke flowed towards the town.

Dean had spent enough time in Tornado Alley to know that sirens should have been wailing. People should have been scurrying for safety. Instead the town was silent, even the cicada-song fading away to nothing.

Cold wind gusted around him and Dean shoved his hands into his pockets before walking down the gazebo stairs. Dean had seen hundreds of small towns like this one, all white-washed wood and brick. He knew there would be one church, two cemeteries, and a volunteer fire department. He headed towards the church steeple at the far end of the town commons. If there was anyone left in this town, that’s where’d he find them. The grass crunched under his feet. The air was heavy, expectant.

Dean pushed open the church door and stepped inside. The silence rang in his ears. Or maybe that was the concussion. He made his way down to the basement in the faint grey light from a tiny window. There was a kitchen, dozens of folding chairs, a playroom scattered with children’s toys. No people. No one.

Dean wasn’t surprised. He couldn't remember what had happened, what was going on. But Dean had a real bad feeling about it. He hadn’t really expected to find anyone in the church.

A burning pain slammed into Dean’s shoulder, sent him to his knees.

 _“Gotta keep goin’,” Dean heard himself slur as Castiel pulled him out of the driver’s seat._

 _“You crashed, Dean. We can’t drive anymore,” Castiel said, half-carrying him away from the wreck and propping him up against a tree. “But I can lead them away.”_

 _Dean tried to shake his head no; closed his eyes against the wracking nausea. When he opened them, Castiel was staring at him intently from just inches away. He never had figured out personal space._

 _“You said there were things worth dying for, Dean. And … we failed. We couldn’t stop any of it. But you were right,” Castiel said. Dean hadn’t seen him like this, so strong and certain, for a long time. “Even if you are the only part of my Father’s creation left to save, it was still worth it.”_

 _Castiel leaned forward. His lips were cool on Dean’s forehead._

Dean was clutching at the handprint burned into his shoulder, spitting bile against the pain that was already fading away to nothing. “Fuck. Cas.”

He pushed himself to his feet and stood there swaying. There wasn’t really anywhere to go, but a town this size should have at least one bar, and Dean headed out to find it. While he was inside the wind had picked up, howling through the deserted streets. It started to hail, tiny bits of ice melting in his hair and rattling against the neatly parked cars. Not a single one of those cars had been abandoned in the middle of the street. There was no sign that anyone had even tried to run for safety.

Dean popped his collar and hunched his shoulders against the weather, marching numbly through the gloom. He eventually spotted a bright neon Coors sign, and was surprised to see the power was still on. It hadn’t occurred to him to check. The door of the bar was plastered with warnings against loitering and fighting. Dean slipped inside and let the wind slam the door closed behind him.

The bar was warm and dim-lit; pungent with spilled beer, a real dive. No windows. That was good, Dean decided, running a hand through his hair to get rid of the last of the hail and wiping his face dry with the hem of his shirt. After all this, it’d be embarrassing to get taken out by shattered window glass.

Dean grabbed a bottle of Jack from behind the bar and wandered over to the jukebox. Opened the bottle, took a swig, and looked over the selection. Way too much country and whiny pop music, but … yeah, right there. Dean found a few quarters in his jacket pocket, slid them in, and typed in L79.

Bonham’s drum beats settled into his bones, drowned out the dull roar of the wind outside. As the wailing harmonica joined in, Dean felt something coalesce in the space behind him. Something vast and dark and deadly. Every hunter’s instinct was pushing him to grab a weapon, fight, run. But you know what? Screw that.

Dean saluted the freaking huge shadow on the wall in front of him with the bottle. “Absent friends,” he toasted, taking another drink as it stepped closer.

The bottle was plucked from his hand. Dean swung around, automatically leading with an elbow.

Sam blocked the strike with his forearm and stepped back out of range. “To absent friends,” he agreed, tilting back the bottle.

Dean watched Sam’s throat work as he swallowed. He looked exactly the same, down to the clothes he’d worn the last time Dean remembered seeing his brother. And Dean knew, _knew_ there was something wrong with that.

“How’d you find me?” Dean asked.

“Been listening for Zeppelin since the world went quiet,” Sam answered. “Came as soon as I heard it.”

Heaven and Hell had been searching for Dean forever, but Sam knew him too well.

“Sorry about Castiel,” Sam said abruptly. “My demons wouldn’t have touched him. It was the angels.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He was, uh-” Dean choked on the words. Couldn’t get them out. Because Cas, he was, this was … Dean had wrecked the fucking car, and there was nowhere left to run, no one left to run with, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

The song’s final guitar riff snarled down into silence, leaving nothing but the distant howl of the wind.

Dean let his eyes close, and Sam was there, impossibly huge and warm, wrapping around him like Dean was a little kid. He smelled like smoke, like kicking back after a hard night’s salt and burn. Dean tilted his head back. Sam’s mouth tasted of whiskey and fire and Sam, and Dean was done running.


End file.
